Mechanical failure

I hate getting an oil change for my car. Most people may think of it as a chore, an annoyance, an excuse to get out of the house, a means of watching stupid court shows on the waiting room TV, reading crappy magazines as a guilty pleasure or to gawk at newer models of cars displayed on the sales side of the dealership (where the TV shows, magazines and coffee are way better, I must say). I treat an oil change with the affection that I have for tooth extraction.


I understand why the oil needs to be changed.....it's just like after using oil for frying pooris or vadais, we would not reuse it. I understand that in the same way that twice-used oil will eventually clog your arteries, so will the unchanged oil clog the engine of your car.  My problem is when the mechanic (let us call him Machiavelli, shall we?) gives me that ingratiating look when I go to pick up the car. I immediately steel myself to say "No", "No" and "No" to all that he says. He starts out with "Nasty weather outside, right Miss?" Curbing my initial urge, I have to say "Yes" since Mother Nature is unleashing some of her PMS right outside the dealership. Before I can recover, he quickly follows it up with " I have good news and bad", with the charming indulgence of one dealing with a kindergartner. "The check engine light that was on, has been switched off at no extra charge, but it's your timingbelttransmissionairfiltercarbeuratorthingamajiggit that needs to be replaced." "Say what?", I blurt out, suddenly wishing that I had not been day dreaming during many a Physics lesson or even when spouse was patiently explaining the internal workings of a car. Too late now, as brother Machiavelli moves in for the kill with ".... and it will just cost you your children's college fund or your antique jewelry. We will take either.....we are not picky, no siree", he finishes with a flourish.


Here is my problem....I love to drive. Whether it is a short jaunt to the grocery store or a long one cross-country, I love the feeling of freedom that I get when I am behind the wheel. However, I have absolutely no clue about what lies beneath the hood of the car.....for all I care, it could be a great big hunk of cheese. So, when Machiavelli announces that something needs to be replaced, I have horrendous visuals of my car literally falling apart down to the nuts and bolts on my ride home if I don't do as he "recommends". It certainly does not help that he adds gravely, "I am simply suggesting this in the interest of safety" and visuals of my offspring flash before me. "Yes", "Yes" and "Yes", I find myself saying to him. "Excellent" he says beaming, "Now, I'll need your signature here, initial here, thumbprint here and as soon as you sign over your life's savings, we will have your car ready"


After convening with members of my gender and sharing these experiences, I have come to realize that I am not alone. I have since formed a Facebook group named Society for Unsuspecting Chicks bilKed by dEvious Repairmen.